Reflections
by ArkadyRose
Summary: "Ablutions" by damned colonial, as told from Holmes' point of view. The simple act of washing awakens urges in Watson that Holmes cannot share or reciprocate.


_Step. Block. Parry. Turn, drop back, feint high then back roundhouse to chin - _the hatstand toppled, shedding its load of outerwear across the floor and knocking a pile of newspaper cuttings flying like so many pale imitations of autumn leaves in a dry, rustling cascade in its wake to flutter down on the unmade bed - _block shin kick with stick, upper cross jab, step, step, turn, crescent kick to right hip - _the chair thudded dully to the bare wooden floor - _jump, spinning back kick, drop to mid-guard, raise stick to block -_

The door opened abruptly as Watson walked in; he paused just within the threshold then folded his arms to stare hard at Holmes. "There you are," he observed. "I don't suppose you remembered that we have concert tickets for this evening?"

Holmes straightened slowly from his crouch and lowered the stick in his right hand, hearing the underlying accusation in Watson's voice that belied the casual words. He chose to disregard it, instead favouring the doctor with a brief smile. "Ah, Watson, good of you to come." He tossed the stick down upon the sofa as Watson righted the fallen chair.

"You're a mess," Watson announced over his shoulder. Holmes shrugged; it was true that he had been somewhat lax over his appearance the past few days. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, and plucked at his rumpled shirt front which, now he came to think on it, had not been changed since - when? No matter. The company he had kept the past two days had been equally uncaring of sartorial matters - or, for that matter, been particularly enamoured of personal hygiene. Ultimately, it had also been devoid of the information he had sought; a dead end and a desultory finish to what should have proven interestingly diverting but instead was banally prosaic, leaving him no recourse but to his usual replacement for intellectual stimulation. He rubbed one hand idly over the bloodstains on his shirt sleeve, ruefully aware that Watson had already observed them.

There was a quiet knock at the door, and Watson opened it; the maid bobbed a brief curtsey and brought a pail of steaming water into the room which Watson took from her with a nod of thanks and dismissal. He placed it on a chair. "I brought you a clean shirt," he said gruffly. "If you clean yourself up, I might be willing to be seen in public with you."

"You flatter me," replied Holmes, hiding a small smile as he began to unbutton his shirt. "Has Mrs Hudson forgiven me, do you think?"

"She's used to you," replied Watson as he opened his bag and pulled out a clean shirt and flannel.

_She's not the only one. _Holmes let a corner of his mouth quirk up slightly; how well Watson knew him indeed, anticipating his needs better than he had himself. Trust Watson to always be impeccably prepared and right on time. It sometimes worried Holmes how much he had come to rely upon Watson's dependability and foresight where his well-being was concerned, though he kept such thoughts to himself. Stripping off the shirt, he draped it over the back of the chair before taking up the flannel.

He was aware of Watson's scrutiny as he began to cleanse his body of the filth and stale sweat of a few days; he could almost feel the intensity of his gaze. He kept his back to the doctor; he knew Watson had doubtless observed hundreds of bare bodies in his career both within the army and without, but Holmes was all too aware that there was something more to the way Watson's gaze lingered upon his form.

Damn, he couldn't quite reach that spot -

"Allow me, old chap," remarked Watson as he stood and took the flannel from Holmes' fingers without waiting for an answer. Holmes allowed his arms to fall loosely to his sides and smiled wryly. _You've been itching to do this for me, haven't you, old friend?_ He relaxed and allowed Watson to minister to him. Did he realise how easy it was to read his desires as though they were written upon a page? Holmes kept perfectly still, permitting the doctor the liberty of touching him only because he knew how much it meant to the man.

Watson's next move was unanticipated; he went still for a moment, and then hesitently, shyly, he encircled Holmes' narrow frame with his arm and pressed his body gently against Holmes' back. Holmes stiffened in surprise; he fought an instinctive urge to pull away, instead allowing only a brief shiver of tension to betray his discomfort. With an effort of will he forced himself to relax into this unwanted intimacy. How long had Watson been waiting for this moment? _Oh, my poor dear chap. If only..._ He let his hand drift up to rest lightly over Watson's as it lay upon his chest over his heart. _Would that I could give you what you want of me. I truly wish I could._ He closed his eyes and let Watson hold him there for a few minutes longer.

Watson's soft sigh almost undid him, a world of longing in that faint sound as he lowered his head to rest upon Holmes' shoulder, the soft press of his lips the merest ghost of a kiss upon the slender man's neck. Holmes winced, knowing Watson was resisting the desire to touch further, to take more of him; though Watson's desire was palpable to Holmes, he could not answer it - his own body felt no answering stir. It never had; not for Watson, or for any other - man or woman - though never had he wished it otherwise until now.

Regretfully, he pulled away from Watson, turning and lifting Watson's hand to his lips to bestow a chaste kiss upon his wrist. Watson's pulse beat fierce and hot against his lips. He gave another half smile. "We'll be late," he observed quietly, and made to pull away further but Watson's grasp upon his hand tightened as he drew Holmes back, covering the captive fingers with kisses before turning to kiss the pale palm.

"Watson..." Holmes' protest was barely more than a murmur. _Don't do this, John. I can't give you what you ask of me._

"I'm sorry," said Watson as he turned away, relinquishing his hand. Holmes stared after him, his eyes dark with regret. _I can't. I can't._

Shaking his head, he picked up the clean shirt and began to dress in silence, intensely aware of the shame and frustration radiating from his companion.

_I can't._


End file.
